


And he walked masked

by Tristana (Astray)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Community: asscreedkinkmeme, I REGRET NOTHING, I just had to find some way to justify it all, M/M, Not much of a plot, Smut with a Story, but still, hope it makes sense, repost from ff.net
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 13:38:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2027088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astray/pseuds/Tristana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Odai and Dulcamara met for the first time at Senna's court, one a prince, the other a court jester. Over time, they ran into another again. This time, Odai was a prince in exile, and soon-to-be Templar, while Dulcamara only uses the mask of a Jester so he could act freely. What had started as simple curiosity about concealment grew into wonder - and things could never go back to an earlier state.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And he walked masked

The mask was unnerving him. It really was. Perhaps he was way too attached to truth and faithfulness to ever be used to this kind of deceit. However, the man was a jester and his face had to remain unseen. But it irked Odai that his face had to be hidden from him as well. Dulcamara had been in his cousin's court for a long time but Odai himself rarely ever interacted with him. It was true that he seemed different from the other jesters that milled through the palace. As far as he knew, the man was an Italian expatriate who had lived in Constantinople. How he made his way in Sennar itself was suspicious – the Ottomans rarely ever allowed another people to be at peace without trying to assimilate them.  
Strolling down the relatively cool corridors, Odai reflected on his cousin. The man was a powerful ruler, that much he admitted freely. However, his thirst for freedom had turned to bloodlust and he was uncontrollable. It took him less than a second of inattention before he slammed into someone who was rushing from the opposite side. The impact was not enough to send him to the floor, he just staggered. The other one was not so fortunate. Odai recognized the trademark clothes – the only distinctive feature of the jester. Even though he did not particularly like him, he nevertheless stepped toward the prone form on the ground to help him to his feet. 

“I am sorry, lord. I did not watch where I was going.” His voice was low, bellying his lithe appearance. 

“It is alright.” Whatever he was running from? Though he was vaguely aware of the fact that the man ran into troubles more often than not, and it has been only a few months since he arrived. Dulcamara was making a name for himself as a troublemaker. All of a sudden, Odai realized the jester's mask was slightly askew, revealing a sliver of skin between the side of the mask and his clothes. Normally, the jester made a point not to show his skin and Odai had always passed it off as a way to protect himself from the unforgiving sun. It was pale, comparatively speaking, but still slightly tanned. Having seen merchants from Italy, Odai was more familiar than his kinsmen with their lighter skin tone but on Dulcamara, it was strangely exotic. He shook his head. Just then, the jester readjusted his clothes, hiding effectively whatever skin showed. 

“Lord Odai?” That voice again. He was not used to hear him, and his accent was so foreign that sometimes his words seemed to flow in an unrecognisable pattern. It was only at this moment that Odai noticed he was staring and did not quit right away. 

“On your way, jester. I believe you have duties to attend.”

As the jester went, Odai noticed his stance lacked its usual spring. A big banquet was underway, to celebrate whatever his cousin thought deserved celebrating. Dulcamara was going to work a lot here. He was getting tired of it himself. Tired of the bloodshed, the threats, the unneeded largesses and uncountable feasts. Especially here, where water was scarce, and their people had to strive to live, and not to survive. Odai had often gone against the viziers, to make sure the population was helped – considering the humongous display of wealth. He turned around and went is way, not noticing the jester's stare following him until next corner. 

It did not take long before Odai went away, from his homeland, up north. Alexandria did not hold him for long, it was almost naturally that he found his way to Constantimople. He still recalled a conversation he had had with Dulcamara, before he left Sennar once and for all. 

“You are leaving?”

“So should you. Soon things will go haywire for you if you keep this up.”

“I have no quarrel with the Sultan's viziers.” But even so, Dulcamara was unsure. It could be heard and seen in his stance. As time went by, the jester had become almost grim, his taunts becoming bitter. 

It was true, Odai had been sick and tired of all this. He needed something else to do. He needed a purpose, something that would use his skills. 

He had been in Constantinople for a few weeks when he first met the representatives of the Templars. At first, he was wary of their methods – how could men claim to want peace when they used the conflicts between Ottomans and Byzantine to achieve their goals? But they offered him a place, and people to protect. And this was enough. He had no illusions, men will be men and that was the end of it. He could not deny that this was not what he would have hoped for a long time ago but that was a long time ago and at this moment, it was not so important. As a matter of fact, Odai agreed with their ideology. And so he accepted their conditions. At least he was not forced to hide his contempt and dislike for people he despised. Which made him feel freer than he most likely was. It was not before two weeks after his first steps with the Templars that news reached him. The merchants he was working with had been eager to talk about new merchandise from Alexandria, and from southern lands. Sennar amongst them. It surprised him not, for Constantinople was a vital platform for commerce. But still. He headed to the port, to survey the merchandise, as one of the merchants required of him. 

It was then that he saw him. Dulcamara was standing amongst the goods, apparently not part of them, but looking every bit as smug as he ever had done. If not for this damned mask of his. And he was well-aware that the jester had noticed him. However, he did not approach. Part of Odai was relieved because he had no idea how to deal with this and their relations had never been so good that Dulcamara could afford coming to him head on and talk as though they were old friends. But there was something sly about the man and Odai himself had little doubt that they would come face to face again, sooner than not. 

It came on a day that had been uncommonly hot. Odai was sitting in one of the many gardens of the city, near a small mosque. Enjoying the shade with a waterskin in hand. The sun was slowly falling behind the tall buildings, the light bouncing of metal poles on the roofs and the armour of soldiers. Light steps were heard, though it sounded as though the one walking was doing all they could to make their presence known. 

“Is this how you work?”

“Even protectors are allowed to rest.” 

“You won't ask me how I found you? Or how I came here.” Surprise was evident in Dulcamara's tone as he came to Odai's side, plopping next to him on the bench. 

“My presence here is no secret. And you have your own reasons. I will not ask yours, because I am not willing to give you mine.”

“Fair enough.” A pause, that lengthened. Odai cast a glance to the jester, who was looking at him rather intently. “You are working for them as well.” Matter-of-fact. There was no question here and what could he answer to this anyway? He did not care. 

The situation was weird to say the least. That Dulcamara sought him out made him uneasy – it usually meant trouble when people began looking for him. The jester was too close. He radiated heat, as though he had absorbed it, probably because of his clothes. And it suddenly gnawed at his mind. Why would he keep wearing his garb when he was obviously not working? And he asked. 

“Let us say that this mask is now who I am. There is nothing more to it.” Dulcamara shook his head, as though he was answering only to humour his companion. “You will see. Soon you will be no one either. You will be your role, but the man will be gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don't play dumb. Do you think I know not who brought you here? But I will tell you: because it is what always happen when people are confined to the same role for too long. I have been a jester for most of my life. I will never be anything else. My name itself is not needed.”

The was no bitterness in his tone. Instead, he sounded almost relieved, and it made Odai think more deeply about it. Perhaps a name was indeed a burden. Something that one does not need to carry in order to live. He would not ask, nor was he given the opportunity as the jester rose to his feet.

“We shall meet again, Guardian.” And with this, he left. It was only then that Odai realized he had kept a strong grip on one of his knives throughout the encounter. Maybe there was more to this man than he was willing to let on. 

The next time they met, it was Odai who found the jester. He was lying in an alleyway, badly beaten. But even then, his mask was perfectly in place. The need to conceal his identity seemed to border on the obsession. Again, it could be argued that this mask had kept him alive for a long time.

“You could use a hand here, Jester?”

“Heh, seems like it. If you wouldn't mind, I would need to go to the Topkapi's headquaters.” His voice was wheezy beneath the mask. He must have troubles breathing. 

“It's a long way.”

“Don't sweat it, I can make it just fine. My right leg is not being too supportive right now, though.” 

Without further ado, Odai helped the Jester to his feet, bracing his left arm under his arms and behind his back. He had to keep a free hand just in case. The attack could not have been a random one and usually the janissaries did not go there. Odai used the streets he took when he wished to remain unseen, small alleys and apparent dead-ends. Even so, he was well-aware of the man's closeness. He seemed to frail but he was simply wiry muscled. The grip he had on his wrist was vice-like. He could feel tremors racking Dulcamara's body, the aftershock of the attack. He must have been caught unaware and it was not a common occurrence. Something went wrong. And he had made a vow to protect, even though he could have perfectly left him in the street to be picked up by someone else. Ragged breathes caught his attention, and he cast a glance to the jester. He really had trouble breathing and he noticed trails of blood seeping from under the painted mask. He stopped in his track, forcing the jester against a wall so he could use both his arms to remove it. Hands caught his wrists. 

“Don't.” A single word but it was enough to make him stop for a moment. There was distress in it, fear even. And then he remembered something he had heard a long time ago: a man who wears a mask do so to protect himself. To remove this mask, real or imagined, is just the same as baring his very soul. Few men can endure it. But he had no choice. 

“You have to breathe.” There is no need to keep going like this. Perhaps his injuries are greater than Dulcamara himself thought. 

The Jester seemed to consider him for an instant, his whole stance betraying his distrust and defiance. A powerful wheezing forced him to agree with Odai though. “I do it. And you will never breath a single word. Not even think about it.” It was a command, and the deep, ragged voice of the Italian man was enough to make Odai nod in silence. He did not exactly understand why, but he knew it must be very important to Dulcamara. Therefore, he let him to what he needed to. 

Slowly, with unsteady hands, the Jester untied his mask and, holding it, carefully removed it. It was a shock – as though he had had come to regard the mask as Dulcamara's actual face. He was so used to see this mask that seeing the man's features had something oddly foreign to it. Nevertheless, he could only stare. His face was sharp, the angles starker against the dimming light and the uneven strokes of a torch. His eyes, barely seen with the mask, were dark and unyielding. Such was the face of the Jester, though his 'true' face seemed to be the mask more than this. Neverthless, Odai saw the bleeding nose – no wonder he had troubles to breath. Such kind of masks were obviously not designed to suit exerting activities, much less breathing impairment. Taking hold of his sash, he poured water on it. Whatever was left in his water-skin will have to do. He handed it to the man, who carefully dabbed his nose with it, wincing. Perhaps not broken but there was no way for him to tell. 

He sensed the jester's eyes on him, gauging his reaction – and Odai suddenly realized that if he showed any kind of reaction, his life might be forfeited. He wondered for a moment what could be done – he obviously could not let Dulcamara wear his mask. He gestured at the sash he had given him. “You could wear this on the lower part of your face. Your eyes would not be enough to identify you, and it's lighter than that mask.”

“Maybe.” The jester sounded sour: that he had no choice was certain, but he did not have to be happy about it, nor make a show of his appreciation for Odai's help. But he did as the guardian bid and tied carefully the clothe – hiding his face from under his eyes down. Resuming their rather slow progress, Dulcamara leaned more and more against Odai, his entire body language admitting to a weakness he would never voice. 

At long last, they entered the Topkapi's headquarters. Luckily for them, none of their other 'associates' was here, and so, they could make their ways to the Jester's area without having to answer questions. Weakness was frowned upon, if one got wounded because of an assassin, it was alright. But clearly, that attack on Dulcamara did not bear the mark of the assassins. As he let go of the jester, Odai saw that he was bleeding – he probably got several cuts, one of which showed across his left shoulder. Dark red staining the orange fabric a dull brown. Leaving the jester for a while, the guardian went to the infirmary, or at least, the place were medical implements were left. Odai rarely ever came here, as he felt much more at ease amidst Constantinople's bustling streets than in this still, dead place. But he knew where everything was, and after getting a hold of balm, he went back to the Italian man. 

When he entered the room again, the door having been left ajar in his absence, Odai got a view of what was hidden beneath the thick uniform. Dulcamara was unsurprisingly slender, but not as skinny as his outfit made him look. His skin, evenly tanned, was stretched over long muscles, a clear indicator of the man's talent for acrobatics. What surprised Odai the most was his hair – longish strands falling on his neck, a dark shade of chestnut, almost black. And he was not wearing the sash around his face anymore. 

“When you're done gawking, feel free to close the door.” Sarcasm dripped from the word, and the guardian could virtually see it. Like some kind of poison. But he did close the door, kicking himself mentally all the while.  
He laid all that he had retrieved on the small table that was on the left hand side of the room, and it was all he could do not to try and look at Dulcamara's face again. In all honesty, the Italian was rather handsome, though his eyes reminded Odai of death way too much for him to even think about it. It was strange. And stranger yet, those bruises marring his skin – ribs, arms, neck – all seemed to become him even more. 

Looking calculatingly at the guardian, Dulcamara considered for an instant sending a knife flying into his eye. But that would be counter productive and he was not stupid enough to maim someone who could be useful to him. Useful... Because he would never let any human being grow close to him. His cousin had done so, and he was not surprised to receive a message from Caha stating that Cahin had gotten himself killed. No, the Guardian was nothing more than a convenience. Someone he could use. He knew he was foreign to the man, but it was mutual. And he had always been interested in how someone like him would possibly have qualms about anything. Dulcamara had none, something Caha once remarked on, and that his employers appreciated. Still, his wounds needed attention. And so, he motioned for Odai to lend him a hand. His back was hurt, he knew – and bandaging his own torso would be no mean feat, though he could perfectly do it. But he was curious as well. How far would Odai go? Were these looks nothing but simple curiosity? 

Odai shook himself and went to help the Jester. He took the damp cloth handed to him and used it to clean the cuts on Dulcamara's back. They were not extensive, more like scratches gotten in a fall or something equally non-life threatening. He let the cloth roam this slightly tanned skin, noticing how hard his body was. All wiry muscles and bones. Strong. He noticed the sudden breathe let out the moment he touched his right side – this was going to bruise. Bloom purple under his skin. He let go of the cloth and took a jar of salve from the small table. He applied it with careful strokes, not hard enough to hurt but still with enough pressure to let it penetrate his skin. The spices present in it warmed the skin, though he was unsure if it was Ddulcamara's or his own that was reacting to the ointment. When it was enough, he let go, handing the jar to the Jester. And found him smiling, if wryly so. It made him uneasy, as though whatever he had done served some purpose. As though the Jester was testing him. Which might as well be the case, for all Odai knew.

They were standing face to face. Too close for comfort of any kind. The Guardian realized on this occasion that Dulcamara was not as short as he thought he was. His gait as the 'jester' was miles away from the way he was now. Nothing remained of the slightly hunched figure, that seemed to lurch one way and another when he walked, as though he was trying to keep himself as close to the ground as possible while standing. Now he was standing straight, looking at him with that deceiving smile. A near perfect copy of the smile on his mask. He shook himself. It definitely was not the way to go. Instead of dwelling on it, he merely finished treating the cuts and bruises, bandaging the whole. 

“I trust you will lay low for a while.”

“Oh, I will, believe me.” The innuendo fell heavily in the air, and it was all the guardian could do not to stare at him. Gaping, more like. And so he went away in silence. 

It was not until some weeks later that he saw the Jester again. He was back in the hideout, acting every bit like his usual self. And Odai could not help but remarking on their last conversation – if that could be called a conversation at all. 

“I did, indeed. And I am back on track. The Assassins don't even know what's hitting them, believe me.” And they spoke for a while. Until they had reached the door to Dulcamara's rooms. Odai himself knew where it was going. Where it had been going since he had helped the Jester off the streets. So they were finally face to face – and Dulcamara was still wearing his mask – he did until they were inside. As though it did not matter anymore that Odai saw his face. They were rather close, but it was a wonder how things progressed. 

The next thing the Jester knew was that his doublet was tossed to the ground. Layers coming off, to the ground, forgotten in their haste. It was the animal need, raw – teeth and nails ripping, gnawing at skin, sinewy frame bowing back. Dulcamara had always known it would come to this, somehow. There was this odd impression. He recalled the stare of the Guardian the first time they had met – the wonder at his appearance and mask. Would he ever know that the mask he wears the best is his own visage? He was no fool, only a Fool to a crownless king. He looked down, at these dark hands on his arms – the contrast so stark it made him feel as though his skin was too white. Glancing up at the guardian's face, the Jester knew. He could not stop staring at him – it was like being close to a fire and knowing that he could touch it without getting burned. He did not close his eyes immediately, keeping the eye contact with Odai until their kiss made it difficult to maintain. It was more of a clash of teeth and tongues, than anything else. And romance was not something either sought. Which was fair enough and meant that Dulcamara would remain as free as could be so long Odai accepted not to try and tie him to him, Which was something he would never come to expect from the other man. Perhaps because neither wanted to be tied down. By anyone. Not even their masters. Dogs could break their leashes and wander free, free to bark and free to bite. 

There would be no gentle lovemaking, nothing of the sort. The Jester never relented to the Guardian. It was a battle of will as much as a battle of bodies and there will be a winner. He did not care who it was as soon as he got what he wanted. Dulcamara wanted it. though he probably should have had some kind of qualms about fucking his colleague but it was of no consequence at all at the moment. Hands tore his clothes from him, until he stood htere naked - and it was his turned. His nails raipped at roughened skin, ripping garments. And he did not even look at the Guardian. He would not let Oda get away with it. But it was a silent agreement, as silent pact sealed. Odai had saved his life - he could have died in the street. The man had saved him and he owed him. It was not going to be said that Dulcamara ever owed anything to anyone - lest he is a corpse, but that was not an option for Odai. That much was clear. If it meant that he would have to surrender his body, he would. A wicked mouth trapped his, and his thoughts wandered from his mind. The man was skilled and he iddly wondered if he even did that before - with such urgency. Possibly. He was used to it, the violence. A jester could never hope for more and like his cousin, he never quite cared what happned to his own body. And so he let him. his hands were busy with the short hair of his partner, strangely soft for their quality. It was unusual. And he had had expected him to be bald or something of the kind but it must be that he was mistaken. He did not know much about him, as things were. 

Odai took over - he felt nails racking his back, it made him shudder. Want spread like a fire and it burned - hard to breath. Scalding touch. He took hold of the jester and forced him backward, to the bed. He felt more than saw his knees buckle against the mattress. Kiss breaking in their fall - finding himself above Dulcamara - who twisted like a snake under him. The touch electrifying - it was all he could do not to force him back and rape him. But he could not do so - or he could but he was curious and therefore, had to make a choice. He let the jester go and suddenly found himself flipped backward on the coverlet. He did not expect this, even though he knew Dulcamara to be a lot stronger than he looked. Strong, slender hands gripped his hips.  
"On my terms, Guardian. Only on my terms." A growl, in that smokey voice. he wanted this, he could tell, but it did not mean that Dulcamara would do anything he did not wish to perform. It was a performance, after all. The mockery of love, the mockery of all that was praised in their age. And it made the Italian smile. Because it was useless to try and consider. To try and see what was worthwhile. 

His hands look fragile against the bronzed skin of the African, but it did not modify his appeal. Far from it. Again, it was not as though Dulcamara would care anyway. He kissed him again, revelling in the strength of the man's touch and rage... There was rage - boundless and ready to break all that stood in its way. And suddenly, he came to want to see - curiosity dawning on him. He wanted to see more - how far his anger delved, how far he would go - would he kill him? Maybe, that could be fun. He wanted to feel it - taking the hands of the guardian in his, bringing them to his neck, a silent request. Relief, when he felt this pressure. Not enough to kill, but the knowledge went straight to his groin. And he could feel Odai's own arousal. He came to kneel on his hips, all the while keeping his weight on the man. It was interesting, how his hips jerked to meet his, a clear sign that it was not in vain. And that it had been a while since the guardian had had any contact with anyone but a victim. The idea would have given him pause in any other circumstances, were he not who he was. But he was a Jester and anything that was not superficial was not worthy of his time. And so, he found himself rocking against Odai again, feeling his arousal pressing against his backside. The pain. He needed the pain - he craved it. And the merciless way in which the guardian just claimed his lips again - he knew he would be the one to give it. 

And so he told him - to go ahead. To take him, to rip him in half if he had to. The prospect of such a death brought to mind the remnants of body drawn and quarted - and it made him edgy. He wanted that - oh yes, he did. And so, he went. Strong hands forced him back up. A low command. "Take what you want then." it made him shiver, his whole body tensing. And he did. The hands remained at his neck. Not squeezing - not yet. Bending his upper body forward, he took Odai's erect member in his hand, rising until he knew he could go ahead. He closed his eyes at first, the contact so familiar and yet so unusual in these circumstances. And he lowered himself. And stopped. The pain shot through him, and robbed his breath. He could not go on. And he was not even close. Odai would hurt him, he knew. It was too much. Too soon. Without preparation, he would never be able to do it. 

"What, can't you do it?" Tears of frustration threatened to fall as he made a strangled sound. A weak animal, begging. It was Odai's cue. He took his hands from his neck and laid them on the bony hips of the Jester. And forced him down. The shattering scream that echoed would scare anyone who could have passed by. But he did not stop. He did so without needless brutality. But the pressure was constant. He gritted his teeth, the tight body of Dulcamara all but welcoming. He usually avoided such predicament, as he did not relish in inflicting pain to others. But to see the usually so collected, sarcastic man with his back tensed backwards, his head thrown back, ribs falling and rising with erratic breathes. He could do with a little pain. But if the pain was bearable, he knew without seeing it how Dulcamara's face must be contorted in pain. He knew it, and yet he did not stop. Not until he was fully sheathed - it felt like Hell. He released a breath he was not aware he was holding, waiting for Dulcamara to move. He helped him at this moment but this will be the last time he did so and he did not mind so much. The jester slowly let his body bend forward, closer to him. 

"Your hands..." I need them, I want you to make me think of something else. I want you to make me forget. And Odai immediately complied, massaging the soft flesh on the corded nerves of his one-time lover. Soft on his veins, harder on the windpipe. Feeling him tense and shudder, his breathing ragged. A low whine echoed, no one knowing exactly who made that sound. And suddenly, Dulcamara moved - it was deliberate, a slow roll of his hips forward. The pain was there, white-hot, melting his spine and spreading still. And he did his best, using whatever strength he had left. He clenched even more around the shaft that threatened to rend him. He did so spasmodically, drawing groans from the quiet man lying under him. He could feel his whole body tense, as he drew his hands from his shoulders to his abdoment, digging his nails in his skin. He could see the lighter traces he left in his wake, wondering if Odai would mind his using the dagger. But he would not use it. Not now. He picked up his pace, using Odai to obtain what he wanted - the overwhelming pain, such strong it overtook pleasure. On a whim, he drew light fingers to his own shaft, stroking himself in sync with his moves. He momentarily closed his eyes, trying to get a hold on himself. He doubted Odai would let him have his way too long, if he did not do anything soon. He just could not move. There was no way in Hell he could move more than that. His body was reeling from the pain and it would not cooperate. 

Odai sensed that Dulcamara would not move as he could have thought, and he was aware that the pain must be great. "Do you want me to take over?"  
Dulcamara nodded, but it was not enough. Odai wanted to hear it. "Say it, Jester."  
"Fuck me, Guardian. As though the Devil himself ordered you to."  
No need to tell him twice. Odai turned around, holding the Jester by the shoulders. He felt something on his legs - and did not need to look down to know it was blood. He glanced at the Jester, his hair darker with sweat, clinging to his temples and forehead. He laid a hand on his cheek, as though it would help. Only to have his partner moving to bite him. In retaliation, he slapped him. It was not hard enough to send his head to the side, but with enough force to colour his skin. He licked Dulcamara's lips, wishing nothing from the act itself, but... he did not know what. Nor did he particularly care. He drew back - almost completely - before slamming against the Jester. He did so - again, and again. He knew he was causing a great amount of pain to his lover, but it was because of this absence of feelings that he went on. Merciless, taking his pleasure, his only concession to his partner, the hand on his throat and the other occasionally stroking him. There were things he wanted to do to him - so many things that it made him feel sick at himself when thinking about it. It was the strange effect of the Jester on him. This capacity to bring out the basest flaws in men - it was an asset in a Fool - not in a man. But they were Templars' agents and therefore, it was of no consequence. And he went on, nothing short of pounding his way in the willing body sprawled under him. 

Dulcamara screamed when Odai had first reentered him, but now all that was left was a string of half-recognizable curses. He needed more, faster, harder. Everything, anything. He used his legs to force Odai against him, until they were chest to chest. His erection trapped between their bodies, his arms widing around the guardian's shoulders, clawing at him. He bit his jaw, nipping the skin, licking it. In some other time, he would have been ashamed of his attitude but he did not dwell on that at the moment. Still, he felt too abandoned, too exposed – it was almost too gentle and he forced his neck against the hand pressing on it. Until Odai took the hint and squeeze harder. And harder, as he was taking him with renewed strength. Panic rose in his chest along with the lack of air. He could not breath properly, he would die. He would – his moves grew more frantic, the feeling of this hard body pressing down on his, deep into him. It was smothering him. His thoughts were incoherent, drawing on memories he had wished to be be forgotten – deep at the bottom of the sea. Wrecked with a sinking war galley. He fought the Guardian, clawing skin against bones, biting to draw blood. Until the pressure withdrew from his neck. Without words, he commanded – not asked – Odai to stop moving. And he did. Wincing, he moved back so that he was able to shift to his hands and knees. To show his back for him was not a weakness – because it made people wary. No one trusts someone confident enough to willingly turn around. And he picked the hesitant gait of his lover. Well, before Odai recovered and rammed into him again. 

The move was so sudden, it would have sent him into the wall. A hand on his hip restrained him. The left hand of the Guardian going back to his shoulder, forcing his half up. The position was not comfortable in the slightest but he did not mind. Teeth sunk at the junction of his neck and shoulder, so hard it made him gasp. A clear sign of ownership. And he allowed himself to be 'owned', for a time. Fingers squeezed his throat again, their pace too face to remain in such a position for long. Leaning on his elbows, Dulcamara braced himself against the thrusts of his lover, feeling fingers gracing his skin while another hand still held his neck. The pressure tightening at times only to loosen shortly. He was close – the humiliation he should have felt pleasantly burned his skin – made him arch his back further. If Odai wanted him to be a whore, he would – but he knew it would make the guardian uncomfortable in retrospect. One reason why he did it. It was not long – it could not be long. As though on cue, he felt the guardian tense against his back. 

The hand around his throat tightened, sending jolts of panic through his mind. Air was wanting but he leaned against this constricting touch, his hands snaking under himself. His hands felt rough and cool against his burning flesh. His release hit him, his whole body arched off the mattress, his head colliding with Odai's shoulder. His eyes were screwed shut, his entire being tensed to the point that he could feel his muscles threatening to rip.  
Odai choked when Dulcamara clenched around him, forcing his orgasm out of him. And without being able to help it, his grip on his lover's neck tightened once more. He trembled, trying to get his bearings, and instead, collapsed to the side, half-over the prone form of the jester. It had been only so much he could do to withdraw before strength evaded him. No movement from the other man made an alarum go through his pleasure-addled mind. Was he alive? What if he had killed him? Suddenly feeling much more awake, he held Dulcamara and had him lying on his back. He was breathing. It was shallow and barely visible but he was definitely breathing. 

“Thought you'd kill me, huh?” Came the low drawl of the Jester. Odai was relieved that the man still had it in him to be nasty. Otherwise, he guessed he would have found himself very much disappointed. 

“Do not mock me, Jester.”

“Oh, I am not. You are so self-righteous...” A slender hand came to rest on the paler, rapidly bruising throat. A way to remind him that they were not so different. And that Odai was the one who inflicted this to him, though at his request. 

The Guardian took this as his cue to leave, and therefore, he got up. Finding his clothes mostly intact – but for the shirt that was rather heavily ripped than usual. But he could live with that. He dressed, never once looking at the man still lying on the bed. It was a one time thing, and he did not expect anything from Dulcamara. He really did not. It was a moment in time. Nothing more than that. Sex without thoughts. Animality in its most primal glory. He had no regrets. Maybe only because he knew that it would never happen again, not if he could prevent it. It was unwise – and the Jester was too dangerous. He left, without really caring... pausing only at the door. “It is good to see that you are feeling better now.” And he closed the door behind him, the corridors empty in the dead of the night. 

Dulcamara did not move for a long time, vaguely resenting the loss of warmth but at the time appreciating that the Guardia had not decided to linger. Probably he did not know how much it affected him, to have someone willing to go through with his whims. His body was sore, his throat was already giving hell and he would rather not even think about how his backside will keep on hurting for days. Raw, unprepared sex was rather not something he would do on a normal basis, and fuck the fact that it had seemed a good idea at the time. He groaned – though it came out as a whine – as he pushed his head further against the pillow. He was lucky his missions were all cancelled. No way he was walking in the streets looking like he got a freaking minaret shoved up his ass. _Galata Tower, rather._ Trust his mind to make things worse. Last time he ever trusts a spur of the moment idea. Never. Again.


End file.
